“Thank you, sir.”
And D’Artagnan left M. de Tréville, touched more than ever by his paternal solicitude for his musketeers.
He called successively at the abodes of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. None of them had returned. Their lackeys likewise were absent, and nothing had been heard of either masters or servants.
He would have inquired after them of their mistresses, but he was not acquainted with Porthos’s or Aramis’s, and Athos had none.
D’Artagnan, being at bottom a prudent youth, instead of returning home, went and dined with the Gascon priest, who, at the time of the four friends’ poverty, had given them a breakfast of chocolate.
Chapter 22 - The Pavilion
At nine o’clock D’Artagnan was at the H?tel des Gardes. D’Artagnan had his sword, and placed two pistols in his belt; then mounted and departed quietly. It was quite dark, and no one saw him go out.
D’Artagnan crossed the quays, went out by the gate of La Conférence, and went along the road, much more beautiful then than it is now, leading to St. Cloud.
D’Artagnan reached St. Cloud; but instead of following the highway, he turned behind the chateau, reached a sort of retired lane, and found himself soon in front of the pavilion named. It was situated in a very private spot. A high wall, at the angle of which was the pavilion, ran along one side of this lane, and on the other a hedge protected from passers by a little garden, at the rear of which stood a small cottage.
He was now on the place appointed, and as no signal had been given him by which to announce his presence, he waited.
His eyes were fixed upon the little pavilion situated at the angle of the wall, all the windows of which were closed with shutters, except one on the first story.
Through this window shone a mild light, silvering the trembling folige of two or three linden trees that formed a group outside the park.
The clock on St. Cloud struck half-past ten.It struck eleven!
At that moment he noticed the trees, on the leaves of which the light still shone; and as one of them drooped over the road, he thought that from its branches he might succeed in looking into the pavilion.
The tree was easy to climb. Besides, D’Artagnan was scarcely twenty, and consequently had not yet forgotten his schoolboy habits. In an instant he was among the branches, and his eyes penetrated through the clear glass into the interior of the pavilion.
One of the panes of glass was broken, the door of the room had been burst in, and hung, split in two, on its hinges; a table, which had been covered with an elegant supper, was overturned; the decanters, broken in pieces, and the crushed fruits, strewed the floor; everything in the apartment gave evidence of a violent and desperate struggle.
He hastened down into the street, with his heart throbbing frightfully.
The little soft light continued to shine in the calm of the night. D’Artagnan then perceived a thing that he had not before remarked, for nothing had led him to this scrutiny—that the ground, trampled here and hoof-marked there, presented confused traces of men and horses. Besides, the wheels of a carriage, which appeared to have come from Paris, had made a deep impression in the soft earth, not extending beyond the pavilion, but turning again towards Paris.
At length D’Artagnan, in following up his researches, found near the wall a woman’s torn glove. Yet this glove, wherever it had not touched the muddy ground, was of irreproachable freshness. It was one of those perfumed gloves that lovers like to snatch from a pretty hand.
Then D’Artagnan became almost wild. He ran along the highway, retraced his steps, and coming to the ferry, closely questioned the boatman.
About seven o’clock in the evening, the boatman said, he had taken over a young woman, enveloped in a black mantle, who appeared to be very anxious not to be recognized.
There was then, as there is now, a crowd of pretty young women who came to St. Cloud, and who had good reasons for not being seen, and yet D’Artagnan did not for an instant doubt that it was Madame Bonacieux whom the boatman had noticed.
D’Artagnan took advantage of the lamp burning in the boatman’s cabin to read Madame Bonacieux’s note once again, and satisfy himself that he had not been mistaken, that the appointment was at St. Cloud and not elsewhere, before M. d’Estrées’s pavilion and not in another street.
He again ran back to the chateau. It appeared to him that something might have happened at the pavilion in his absence, and that fresh information was awaiting him.
The lane was still empty, and the same calm, soft light shone from the window.
D’Artagnan then thought of that mute, blind cottage: it must have seen, and perhaps could speak!
The gate was locked, but he leaped over the hedge, and in spite of the barking of a chained dog, went up to the cabin.
There was no answer to his first knocking. A deathlike silence reigned in the cottage as in the pavilion; but as the cottage was his last resource, he kept knocking.
It soon appeared to him that he heard a slight noise within, a timid noise, seeming itself to tremble.
Then D’Artagnan ceased to knock, and entreated with an accent so full of anxiety and promises, terror and persuasion, that his voice was of a nature to reassure the most timid. At length an old, worm-eaten shutter was opened, or rather pushed ajar, but closed again as soon as the light from a miserable lamp burning in the corner had shone upon D’Artagnan’s baldric, sword-hilt, and pistol pommels. Nevertheless, rapid as the movement had been, D’Artagnan had had time to get a glimpse of an old man’s head.
“In the name of Heaven,” cried he, “listen to me! I have been waiting for some one who has not come. I am dying with anxiety. Could any misfortune have happened in the neighbourhood? Speak!”
The window was again opened slowly, and the same face appeared again. Only it was paler than before.
D’Artagnan related his story simply, with the omission of names. He told how he had an appointment with a young woman before that pavilion, and how, seeing she did not come, he had climbed the linden tree, and by the lamplight had seen the disorder of the chamber.
The old man read so much truth and so much grief in the young man’s face that he made a sign to listen, and speaking in a low voice, said,
“It was about nine o’clock when I heard a noise in the street, and was wondering what it could be, when, on coming to my gate, I found that somebody was endeavouring to open it. As I am poor, and am not afraid of being robbed, I went and opened the gate, and saw three men at a few paces from it. In the shade was a coach with horses, and some saddle-horses. These saddle-horses evidently belonged to the three men, who were dressed as cavaliers.
“‘Ah, my worthy gentlemen,’ cried I, ‘what do you want?’
“‘Have you a ladder?’ said the one who appeared to be the leader of the party.
“Yes, sir—the one with which I gather my fruit.”
“‘Lend it to us, and go into your house again. There is a crown for the trouble we cause you. Only remember this, if you speak a word of what you may see or hear (for you will look and listen, I am quite sure, however we may threaten you), you are lost.’
“At these words he threw me a crown, which I picked up, and he took my ladder.
“Well, then, after I had shut the gate behind them, I pretended to go into the house again; but I immediately went out at a back door, and stealing along in the shade, I gained yonder clump of elder, from which I could see everything without being seen.
“The three men brought the carriage up quietly, and took out of it a little, short, stout, elderly man, poorly dressed in dark-coloured clothes. He climbed the ladder very carefully, looked slyly in at the window of the pavilion, came down as quietly as he had gone up, and whispered,
“‘It is she!’
“Immediately the one who had spoken to me approached the door of the pavilion, opened it with a key he had in his hand, closed the door, and disappeared, while at the time the other two men mounted the ladder. The little old man remained at the coach door, the coachman took care of his horses, a lackey held the saddle-horses.
“All at once loud screams resounded in the pavilion, and a woman ran to the window and opened it, as if to throw herself out of it; but as soon as she perceived the other two men, she sprang back, and they got into the chamber.
“Then I saw no more, but I heard the noise of breaking furniture. The woman screamed and cried for help, but her cries were soon stifled. Two of the men appeared, bearing the woman in their arms, and carried her to the carriage; the little old man entered it after her. The one who stayed in the pavilion closed the window, came out an instant after at the door, and satisfied himself that the woman was in the carriage. His two companions were already on horseback; he sprang into the saddle, the lackey took his place by the coachman, the carriage went off at a rapid pace, escorted by the three horseman, and all was over. From that moment I have neither seen nor heard anything.
D’Artagnan, entirely overcome by such terrible news, remained motionless and mute, while all the demons of anger and jealousy were howling in his heart.
“But, my good gentleman,” resumed the old man, upon whom this mute despair certainly produced a greater effect than cries and tears would have done, “do not take on so; they did not kill her—that’s the main thing.”
With a broken heart D’Artagnan again bent his way toward the ferry. Sometimes he could not believe it was Madame Bonacieux, and hoped he should find her next day at the Louvre; sometimes he feared she had been having an intrigue with some one else, who, in a jealous fit, had surprised her and carried her off. His mind was torn by doubt, grief, and despair.
“Oh, if I had my three friends here,” cried he, “I should have, at least, some hopes of finding her; but who knows what has become of them?
”It was almost midnight; he decided to pass the night in an inn. D’Artagnan, be it remembered, was only twenty years old, and at that age sleep has imprescriptible rights, which it imperiously insists upon, even over the saddest hearts.
Chapter 23 - Porthos
Instead of returning directly home, D’Artagnan alighted at M. de Tréville’s door and quickly ran upstairs. This time he was determined to relate all that had passed.
M. de Tréville listened to the young man’s account with a seriousness which proved that he saw something else in all this adventure than a love affair; and when D’Artagnan had finished.
“Hum!” said he; “all this smacks of his Eminence a league off.”
“But what is to be done?” said D’Artagnan.
“Nothing, absolutely nothing at present, but to leave Paris, as I told you, as soon as possible. I will see the queen; I will relate to her the details of this poor woman’s disappearance, of which she is, no doubt, ignorant. These details will guide her on her part, and on your return I shall perhaps have some good news to tell you. Count on me.”
D’Artagnan knew that, although a Gascon, M. de Tréville was not in the habit of making promises, and that when by chance he did promise, he generally more than kept his word. He bowed to him, then, full of gratitude for the past and for the future; and the worthy captain, who, on his side, felt a lively interest in this young man who was so brave and resolute, pressed his hand affectionately, while wishing him a pleasant journey.
Determined instantly to put M. de Tréville’s advice into practice, D’Artagnan rode toward the Rue des Fossoyeurs, in order to super-intend the packing of his portmanteau. On approaching the house he perceived M. Bonacieux, in morning costume, standing at his door.
“Well, young man,” said he, “we appear to pass rather gay nights! Seven o’clock in the morning! Hang it! you seem to reverse ordinary customs, and come home at the hour when other people are going out.”
“No one can reproach you for anything of the kind, M. Bonacieux,” said the young man; “you are a model for sober people.”
Bonacieux grinned a ghastly smile.
“Ah, ha!” said Bonacieux, “you are a jocular companion. But where the devil were you gadding last night, my young master? It does not appear to be very clean in the crossroads.”
D’Artagnan glanced down at his boots, all covered with mud, but that same glance fell upon the mercer’s shoes and stockings. It might have been said they had been dipped in the same mudhole. Both were stained with splashes of the very same appearance.
Then a sudden thought crossed D’Artagnan’s mind. That little, short, stout, elderly man, that sort of lackey, dressed in dark clothes, treated without consideration by the men wearing swords who composed the escort, was Bonacieux himself! The husband had participated in the abduction of his wife!
“Ah, ha! but you are joking, my worthy man,” said D’Artagnan. “It appears to me that if my boots want sponging, your stockings and shoes stand in equal need of brushing. May you not have been philandering a little also, M. Bonacieux? Oh, the devil! that’s unpardonable in a man of your age, and who, besides, has such a pretty young wife as yours is!”
“O Lord, no!” said Bonacieux.
D’Artagnan left the mercer and at the top of the stairs he found Planchet.
“Are you not as anxious to get news of Grimaud, Mousqueton, and Bazin as I am to know what has become of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis?” said D’Artagnan.
“Oh yes, sir,” said Planchet; “and I will go as soon as you please. Indeed, I think country air will suit us much better just now than the air of Paris. So then—”
“So then, pack up our necessaries, Planchet, and let us be off. On my part, I will go out ahead with my hands in my pockets, that nothing may be suspected. You can join me at the H?tel des Gardes.”
D’Artagnan went out first, as had been agreed upon. Then, that he might have nothing to reproach himself with, he went for the last time to the residences of his three friends. No news had been received of them; only a letter, all perfumed, and of an elegant and delicate handwriting, had come for Aramis. D’Artagnan took charge of it. Ten minutes afterwards Planchet joined him at the stables of the H?tel des Gardes. D’Artagnan, in order that there might be no time lost, had saddled his horse himself.
“All right,” said he to Planchet, when the latter added the portmanteau to the equipment.
As they left the H?tel des Gardes they separated, going along the street in opposite directions, the one expecting to leave Paris by the gate of La Villette, and the other by the gate of Montmartre, with the understanding that they were to meet again beyond St. Denis. This, a strategic man?uvre, was executed with perfect punctuality, and was crowned with the most fortunate results. D’Artagnan and Planchet entered Pierrefitte together.
Our two travellers arrived at Chantilly without any accident, and alighted at the hotel of the Great St. Martin, the same they had stopped at on their first trip.
